Witch One Dunnit? (Rachael Penzra mystery) (32 page)

       I didn’t get much out of her after that, being reduced to comforting her and reassuring her that her spells had had nothing to do with Shelly’s death.  Then she was all ready to rush over to Lucinda, confess her naughtiness, and beg for forgiveness.  I finally convinced her it would be better if she sacrificed her own peace of mind and didn’t let on how she’d actively disliked the girl, rather than make Lucinda suffer from knowing that someone had disliked her daughter.  I got a bit rambling by the time I was through, but she seemed satisfied she was being punished, and therefore all was forgiven.  I felt like a priest, giving her absolution as I sent her on her way. 

       Then I nobly, insisting on suffering martyrdom, refused to eat lunch, going back to work and sending the other two back to the kitchen for their break.  The crowd had thinned out considerably, but it would pick up again later.  There were rhythms to the shop just as there are to all things.  I thought about that, and about Moondance and her spells.  It kept coming back to me that the spells matched the insults.  Even Moondance understood the difference between “naughty” and “wicked.”  She’d understood, at least to an adequate degree, that what she was doing was contrary to the witches’ rede.  But she’d been angry enough, and vindictive enough, to use the Powers for wrong-doing.

       It was the balance, though, that struck me.  Shelly had humiliated Moondance.  The spells in return had been ones to
cause
humiliation.  Immature, of course, but fair as far as such things go.  It was the old eye for an eye theory.  What could the girl have done demanding
death
as payment?  There wasn’t any answer for me.  I tend to be a pacifist by nature rather than by belief.  I just find it difficult to recognize
any
wrong that deserves premeditated revenge. 

       I fretted mentally all afternoon about the imbalance.  Who did I know who might have that type of mind?  And how would I recognize it without tuning in psychically?  It would have to be a secretive mind, a mind showing the world a mask and gloating at its own cleverness in hiding its face.   My mind jumped immediately to David, with his untouchable mind.  Talk about masks!  The excuse of living with a family of the gifted in the psychic world was plausible, if that was the reason behind his ability to hide his psyche.  I watched him waiting patiently on an older woman, seeking something special for her granddaughter.  He exuded patience and interest and kindness.  Another mask?

         And what about the charming Robert Court?  Was his charming exterior hiding the soul of a murderer?  Could owning my home possibly be so important to him? 

       Or Ronnie Pfeiffer.  He stood to inherit a lot of money from his aunt now that his cousin was gone.  But what did that have to do with Aunt Josie or
me?

      
There was Karyn, who would do probably do anything for her boss.  And Percy.  How cruel had that date with Shelley been?  How devoted was he to Robert’s interests?  Would he kill to give his beloved a chance to buy my store? Even Lucinda had to be suspected.  Nobody with a strong personality like hers was completely sane.  Not Patsy, not me, but the rest?

       But what the heck was the connection?

       My mind whirled with suspects, and possible motives, and not a one of them made
sense. 
 

       To top off the afternoon, we had a woman come in and walk straight up to me as I stood behind the counter.  Fortunately the store was fairly empty at the moment, probably not more than a dozen people in there.  “Are you the woman who’s a witch?” she demanded of me in a voice almost the equal of Moondance’s.  “I’ve come to leave you some materials that will show you the evil of your ways.  I’m doing my duty, and if you choose not to repent, I wash my hands of you.  Read these and repent!” she ordered me.  With that she threw a handful of leaflets on the counter, turned on her heel and marched out, glancing neither right nor left.

       I would have liked to casually toss the papers she’d handed me into the waste paper basket, but the gesture might have been offensive to some of the customers.  It wasn’t often I’d been attacked for being a Wiccan, but it had happened.  Generally people are a little fascinated with the idea, waiting to watch me perform.  When nothing interesting happened, they go about their business.  I have a fair-sized sign by my herbal collection informing people that witchcraft’s involvement with herbs is simply the study of natural healing.  I doubt many people are convinced.  Let’s face it, Witchcraft has a more portentous sound to it than Wicca.  The latter sounds suspiciously like a Bostonian talking about a basket or a chair.  A Wicca basket.  And connotation is everything.  Witchcraft summons up visions from Macbeth.  The public’s response to “Wicca” is generally still, “huh?”

       Despite the fact my happy morning had deteriorated, I still felt fairly good, and it was all because George-the-Glutton was on the mend.  As bad as it is to commit murder against another human being, at least a human being has a reasonable chance to defend himself.  What possible chance did poor George have against being poisoned?  None whatsoever.  The thought of that homely, loving, trusting animal suffering made me sick. 

       David seemed reluctant to leave after work.  I thought of asking him to stay and eat with us, but the maternal, nourishing side of me had swiftly run through our food supply and found it wanting.  Not that we didn’t have plenty to eat...  We just didn’t have the kind of food one feeds to
guests
.  I would invite him for a meal, soon, but it would be a meal my own mother would be proud to present.  He would be presented with meat, potatoes, veggies, bread, a jello-like thing, and dessert. Along with that he’d be plied with repeated offers of coffee. That’s still my idea of proper food for company.

       When he finally left I asked Patsy what she wanted for supper, but she had a dinner date with Joe.  I wondered how they managed their meals, she with her strict adherence to the Vegan diet, and Joe being a distinct meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.  I didn’t think it’d be long before she had him converted to a semi-vegetarian diet, at the very least.  What he would eat out of her sight, surrounded by his cop buddies, was an all-together different thing.  I’m sure there are many vegetarians amongst our nation’s law officers, but I didn’t think many of them resided in Balsam Grove, Minnesota.

       I was glad to see them drive off.  I had no plans for any company the evening, going so far as locking the doors early, retreating out of sight to the upstairs living room.  I had every intention of being in bed by the time I needed artificial light.  I saw no necessity for anyone to know that I was in the house.  I was sick to death of people.

       And for once they seemed to have had enough of me.  I bathed, slathered lotion all over my body in another lame attempt to discourage the signs of aging skin, and felt I’d done my duty to middle-aged women all over the world.  No new wrinkles for me that evening.  I couldn’t guarantee it would last the night, though.  I’d been noticing that when I slept on my side, the bottom side of my face retained its wrinkles and cracks for much longer than it had a year earlier.  Aging is a painful journey of discovery, and once you notice the first signs they seem to multiply every month or so. 

       My vanity-induced musings were interrupted by yet another flash of hatred, and this time I felt a sense of desperation.  That alarmed me more than the hatred itself.  If the murderer was becoming panicked, for whatever reason, surely we were all in imminent danger. 

       I lay down on the bed, closed my eyes, and did my best to concentrate my efforts on that invasive, hateful mind.  Emotion, pure emotion. Who was it coming from?  How could anyone be thinking such dark thoughts, and not have it showing on their face.

       It was so pure, so black.

       And as I concentrated, I felt yet another emotion.  Triumph? 

       What on earth?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

From the Wiccan Rede:

Heed ye Flower, Bush and Tree

By the Lady, blessed be.

       I would have ignored the phone if it’d been anybody else.  I was getting the clearest readings I’d had since this whole ugly ordeal had begun, and the voice on the machine was interrupting the flow.

       Lucinda’s voice, though, was difficult to ignore.  She sounded desperate, insistent I answer the phone.  When the answering machine had picked up, her voice had sounded close to tears.  “If you’re there, Rachael, please pick up.  I’ve found him.  I know who it is.  Call me no matter what time you get home.  Please, Rachael, this is important!”

       I fell out of bed, tumbling sheets and blankets in my hurry to reach the phone.  I was too late, naturally.  Grumbling, I fumbled for my bathrobe and made my way downstairs to my address book.  It made sense to have one upstairs, too, but it was one of those things that somehow kept sliding to the bottom of my list of things to do.

       She answered on the second ring.  I apologized for not making it to the phone for her call.  I do silly, but polite, things like that when I’m nervous.  She cut short my explanation.

       “I found him, Rachael.  I found him!  I know who killed Shelly, and it’s all thanks to you!”

       “Lucinda, I haven’t done ...”

       “You have, dear, oh you have!  I’m coming over right now!”

       “Call the police if you know something,” I told her, envisioning something happening to her between her house and mine.  “Tell them what you know and then come over.  Or tell me now.  I’ll call them if you want.  Don’t be silly about this, Lucinda.”

       There was a moment’s hesitation.  “I’ll call them,” she promised.  “But then I’m coming right over.  Watch for me.  All right?”

       Of course it was all right.  I wanted to know who it was as much as the next person.  I still didn’t like the idea of her not having notified the police immediately.  This wasn’t a mystery story.  This was true life.  Her daughter was dead, and there was a killer on the loose.

       I wondered what the heck she thought I’d done to solve the mystery.  As far as I knew, I’d done nothing except get confused and scared.

       I hurriedly threw on some clothes and brushed my hair, more as a symbolic gesture of pulling myself together than as anything useful.  My hair has no special qualities other than its ability to either stick straight out in patches or to lie so flat it looks like a cheap, worn-out wig.  Along with other things, I was way overdue for a haircut.

       Downstairs I waited, fretting.  It would, of course, take her a little time to reach the authorities and explain what she knew, or
thought
she knew.  Okay.  Give her the time it took me to dress and make myself more or less presentable.  Then give her five minutes to get here, maximum, from house to house.  She should have been arriving.  I went to the door and peeked out the window.  Nothing but darkness.  I had no sooner gone back to put on the coffee pot then there was a knocking that almost scared me out of my wits.  Funny.  She must have driven up immediately after I turned away from the window. 
Immediately
.  And I hadn’t seen the lights of her car.

       Not that it mattered.  I just hoped she hadn’t been foolish enough to
walk
over alone.  I peeked outside the window again, and saw it was, indeed, Lucinda.  Even in the poor lighting outside I could see a strange glow in her eyes, a wild smile of triumph plastered on her face. 

       It crossed my mind
she
was the murderer, and she’d finally cracked and was about to try to kill me.  She certainly looked odd enough.  But she couldn’t be.  A
mother? 
Weird scenarios flashed through my mind: adoption? Shelly as the bastard child of her husband, and she was forced to raise her as her own?  It didn’t make sense.  But then the way her face looked, she didn’t have to make sense.  Not to me.